“He sat next to me on a flight to Hawaii,” the doctor said.
“You mean you never saw him on Fantasy Island?”
“No,” the doctor said.
“Then how did you know who he was?”
“He told me,” the doctor said.
“You’d know Stephanie Sykes if you saw her,” Piggy said. He shifted onto one buttock and pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. He flipped it open and handed it to the doctor.
The doctor looked, smiled, and handed it back. It was a picture of Piggy in a tuxedo and Nicole in a satin dress with rhinestones around the neck. The flashbulb seemed to be exploding on Piggy’s forehead. Piggy looked at the picture. He hated it that he was half bald.
“You’ve at least heard of Passionate Intensity,” Piggy said.
“I’ve only heard the line from Yeats,” the doctor said. “Are you feeling anxious? Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Yeats?” Piggy said.
“Yeats,” the doctor said. “The poet.”
“What are you talking about?” Piggy said, moving to the edge of his chair.
“ ‘The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity,’ ” the doctor said.
“You’re putting me on!” Piggy said. “Jack Dormett titled the show!”
“Mr. Proctor, if you’re able to concentrate now, I have a couple of brief forms that I’d like you to sign, and then if you wish to use the telephone, or—”
“How could it be a poem?” Piggy said. “I don’t know anything about that.”
The doctor stared at Piggy.
“Give me the line one more time,” Piggy said.
The doctor sighed. “It’s a line from The Second Coming,” the doctor said. “ ‘The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.’ ”
“The worst?” Piggy said. “Dormett wouldn’t dare put one over on me.”
“Mr. Proctor,” the doctor said. “Do you understand why I cannot continue this conversation?”
“Because I don’t converse,” Piggy said. That was what Jane always said; that he issued policy statements, talked to himself, cracked jokes, threatened violence, and used non sequiturs the way other people shook salt on their food. That he was so frustrating he was fascinating. Jane’s face was scratched and scarred from all the rocks and trees and bushes she had tumbled through when the motorcycle went off the road and plunged down the canyon. Jane was dead. Piggy put his face in his hands. He pressed his palms against his eyes until he saw yellow. As he pressed, the headache became worse. If Dormett had put one over on him, he would personally kill him. He looked up. The doctor was sitting behind his desk, his own chin cupped in his hand. He lowered his hand and looked as if he was about to speak, but he didn’t. The forms Piggy had to fill out were on his desk. Piggy reached for them. The doctor picked them up, stood, and brought them to Piggy. “Feel free to move your chair forward, or whatever is comfortable,” the doctor said. “I think I’m going to get a cup of coffee. Would you like a cup?”
“Thank you,” Piggy said.
“What do you take in it?”
Piggy did not drink coffee. “Milk,” he said.
The doctor got up. The doctor locked his top drawer with a little key before leaving. There was a phone on the doctor’s desk. As soon as he finished listing days and dates, he was going to have to use the phone. The thought came to him that it would be a good idea to call someone — call Hildon — and have him be at Lucy’s house when he called. His secretary had Hildon’s office number, in addition to Lucy’s, where important messages could be left for Nicole. He stood and picked up the phone. Someone on the phone was talking about an airline that had declared bankruptcy. He pushed a button on the bottom of the phone and got an outside line. He dialed his office.
Dora answered. “This is important,” Piggy said. “Get that book with summer numbers in it and give me Hildon what’s-his-name’s or what’s-his-name Hildon’s number for Nicole.”
“Mr. Proctor,” Dora said, “I have extremely urgent, terribly disturbing news for you. Zeva quit. She took things out of her desk drawer and threw them all around the office and turned the desk over before she quit. It will take me a minute to find the book.”
“Christ,” Piggy said, “find it as fast as you can and call me back.” He did not realize until he had hung up that he had not given her the number. Someone coughed, and continued by. Piggy looked at the form. He looked at the other one. Jane was dead. The worthless, reckless scum she had married was in a coma and expected to die. From measurements taken of the skid marks of the motorcycle, he must have been traveling at about the speed of sound. Jane had been thrown. She was DOA. He was alive, but just barely. Piggy did not want him to live, and if he did, he would personally kill him. From the picture Piggy had seen, the motorcycle, down in the canyon, where they had plunged, looked like an accordion with handlebars. What in the name of God was he going to say to Lucy? The newspapers were going to get hold of it, so he had better think about what he was going to say. They didn’t put it in the paper until the next of kin had been notified, though. He looked at the form in front of him. Next of kin. Jesus: Jane’s mother. She was already furious about the wedding — wait till she heard what they did for an encore. There was going to be an autopsy. He hated to think what that might reveal. He picked up the pen and was filling out the forms when the doctor came back in the room. Another man, probably a doctor, stopped in the doorway and said, “Did you hear that Air Florida filed for bankruptcy?” “That happened days ago,” the doctor said. “There goes that smart investment down the drain,” the doctor said.
Piggy was thinking about the ride on the Cyclone he had taken the spring before with Jane. Nicole was too frightened to go on it. They were on location, bored, and Piggy had rounded up half a dozen members of the cast to go with them. He could remember Jane’s excitement as he closed the bar over their car. The way they were thrown against each other over and over, rocking left and right, and suddenly flipped upside down. They were both terrified, but exhilarated. His legs were shaking when they got off, and he could hardly hear. He could remember Nicole standing there, turning a pink cotton candy. She was always sulky when Jane had the nerve to do something she wouldn’t do. Cotton candy made her face break out. She knew it, and was pleased to be licking the wide plume of spun sugar. She might as well have been Lolita with her lollipop.
Piggy could not remember if Lolita had a lollipop. Sue Lyon was great in that movie. He remembered the heart-shaped glasses. It was a good thing to have a gimmick. Michael Jackson’s glove. Nicole needed a gimmick. As she grew up, she was going to be blow-dried into the same blond prettiness as everybody else.
The doctor handed Piggy a cup of coffee.
“Thank you,” Piggy said. The ghost of Jane made him say it.
The doctor nodded and went to the window and stood there, sipping his coffee. Piggy signed the form. It did not seem possible that he could be doing this. He had forgotten the title of the poem. He couldn’t remember what had happened to Sue Lyon after she did Lolita. A first-rate actress in a first-rate movie, and then what happened to her? He couldn’t let Nicole fade away like that. She was going to have to really concentrate on her career, get it together in spite of her sadness, and go on. Jesus Christ: how could Jane have done it?
“You don’t mind if I use the telephone?” Piggy said.
“Do you think you’d like something to calm you? Take a pill and wait a few minutes before calling?”
“Oh yeah,” Piggy said. “Give me a pill.”